Storm Surge (13 page)

“Maiten!” Ceres pointed at the red-haired Guardian. “Have
some
respect.”

“Absolutely not. If he wants respect, he can come over here and demand it of me.”

Breton rubbed at his forehead as Ferethian reached out and bit the recalcitrant Guardian on the arm. The scuffle between horse and man ended with the black stallion placing a hoof on Maiten’s chest, teeth snapping without closing on flesh or bone.

While he doubted Ferethian would hurt Maiten, if either one of them were injured, Breton would pay the price. “Enough, foals, unless you want us all to be whipped.”

“I’d like to see him bring you lot in line,” Captain Silvereye said, emerging from the darkness. A young, blond-haired woman followed slightly behind and to his left. Delaven came next, looking anxious, leaving Derac to bring up the rear, frowning as he joined them.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get that chance. We were discussing sacrificing Ceres first. He might survive his father’s wrath,” Maiten replied cheerfully. “You must be Moritta.”

The woman dipped into a shallow bow. “Guardian Maiten.”

“I’m really surprised you’re here, Derac,” Maiten said in a quiet voice.

The Kelshite straightened. “I’m going to flatten my cousin later about this, have no doubts. He didn’t tell me who he was. I had wondered, seeing my uncle and him go at each other’s throats, but I hadn’t known for certain. Satrin told me today. So, here I am.”

“When you try, just know he fights dirty,” Maiten replied, grinning.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Should we take this elsewhere?” Captain Silvereye asked.

Breton shook his head, picking up the sheathed Gorishitorik. “Here is fine, Captain Silvereye. This will not take long at all. It is a blood oath and little else. But, it is my duty to explain to you what you are getting yourselves into.”

Both Moritta and Delaven straightened, watching him with interest. Neither spoke. Derac nodded.

“In your first days as a Guardian, you will be herded by another Guardian. He will guide you in your duties, help you adapt, and tell you all you need to do in order to survive under the rule of the Rift King. Ceres will herd you, Delaven. You will answer to him, to the Rift King, and to me. Maiten, you’ll herd Moritta. You will answer to Maiten, to me, and to the Rift King. Derac, I will herd you. You will answer to me and to the Rift King. All other Guardians are your herd mates. You will swear on your shed blood that you will protect, nurture, and guard the Rift King from harm.”

He considered mentioning that their duties also included protecting others from the Rift King, but he decided against it. If it became a problem, they’d learn the truth soon enough. Unsheathing the Rift King’s sword, he held the blade out. “This is Gorishitorik, the King Slayer. With one cut of this, you will be forever bound to the Rift King and to the Rift. Do you understand?”

Narrowing his eyes, he searched their faces for any sign of doubt or uncertainty.

There was none.

“I understand,” Derac said without hesitation.

Breton wondered if insanity was an inherited trait of the Delrose line.

“I understand,” Moritta said, her voice clear and quiet.

Delaven nodded. “I also understand.”

“I will begin with you, Delaven. Hold out your left hand, palm up. You as well, Ceres.” Once both obeyed, Breton tightened his grip on Gorishitorik and placed the blade across Ceres’s wrist. The blade cut through skin with no resistance. Blood welled up from the wound. Ceres winced, but remained still. Before Delaven could react, Breton did the same to him.

Gorishitorik’s blade glowed with a silver light. The eyes of the serpent on the guard turned black, devouring the illumination. Then, blazing with the brightness of the sun, the horse’s eyes flashed gold. Stowing the blade under his arm, Breton seized Ceres and Delaven’s wrists and pressed the bleeding wounds together. “Don’t move.”

In Gorishitorik’s light, Breton watched Delaven pale by several shades. Once he was certain neither was going to move, he took up the blade and placed the wet edge of the blade against his own wrist. The metal was hot to the touch, cooling as it sliced through his skin. The glow of the blade changed to the pale blue of a winter sky. Breton’s skin crawled as though serpents slithered in his veins.

When the glow faded away, Breton lifted the weapon away from his skin. The wound writhed and closed, leaving behind a silvery scar no thicker than a hair.

Ceres shook out his arm while Delaven stood stunned. Leaving the new Guardian to Ceres, Breton turned to Moritta.

“That’s it?” she asked.

Breton smiled, said nothing, and gestured invitingly with the Rift King’s sword. Without hesitation, Moritta thrust out her left arm. When it was Derac’s turn, the Kelshite likewise held his arm out without a word.

Pain stabbed up Kalen’s arm. He hissed, tried to pull his wrist to his chest, and froze as realization struck him.

His right hand didn’t hurt any more than usual. The unnerving sensation of his phantom left arm was coupled with a throb so strong it stirred the memories of the Danarite Priest breaking the bones in his hand, one by one. A shudder tore through him, a cold sweat trailing down his brown.

The Lord Priest’s laughter rang in his memories.

“Your Majesty?” Crysallis’s cry was sharp with alarm.

He wanted to reply, but his non-existent arm hurt so much he couldn’t force a single word out. The worst of the agony centered in his hand, but it spread to his wrist and ever upward until it reached his shoulder. From there, it lit every nerve in his body on fire.

His legs buckled beneath him, and with a curse, Crysallis caught him under his arm, sparing his head from bouncing against the ground. With a jerk, the witch created a globe of light over them. Kalen floundered, struggling to draw a deep breath to ease the burning in his lungs.

“What’s wrong?” Crysallis lowered him to the ground, sinking down so she could rest his head against her leg. Before he could reply, she took hold of his hand, applying pressure in search of the source of the pain.

“Left shoulder,” he gasped out. It was difficult to force the words out through the throbbing in his throat, which matched the erratic, frantic beating of his heart. “Arm.”

“Your
left
arm?” The witch lowered his right hand, turning her attention to his shoulder. Her touch was gentle, but Kalen hissed from the pain.

“Yes, yes!” Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes, shuddering from the shock of the sensations.

“How does it hurt?”

It took him several long moments to control his breathing enough to speak. “Like someone’s breaking every bone in my hand for the fun of it.” Sweat dripped down his face, and despite his efforts, he panted. He wanted to snap at the woman and remind her he knew
exactly
what that felt like, but he couldn’t force the words out. “Hellfires.”

Muttering something too low for him to hear, Crysallis’s hands roamed across his chest before sliding down his right arm to his wrist. She kneaded his palm with her thumbs. When she worked her way back to his wrist, the pain ebbed to the annoyance of a fresh cut than the sharper stab of broken bones.

Kalen’s body went limp at the oddly pleasant tingling spreading from the witch’s touch. The sensation reminded him of a healer’s ability to siphon away pain to fuel their magic. Could the witch
heal
? He’d always thought Crysallis’s domain had been in destruction, not renewal. “What happened?” His voice was weak and tired.

“For a moment, I was worried that it was the taint, but it is not.” Crysallis continued to massage at his wrist. “Where is Gorishitorik? It is not with you.”

“Gorishitorik?” Kalen cracked open an eye. The witchlight illuminated Crysallis’s smile. “What does Gorishitorik have to do with this?”

“How are you feeling? Is your head still bothering you? How about your hand?”

“Hurts less,” he admitted. He tingled more than he ached. “There are still phantom pains.”

Over the years, the frequency of the pain in his left arm had eased, though he hadn’t managed to escape it entirely. Sometimes, he caught glimpses of worried looks from the healers when it did bother him. His phantom pains should have faded into extinction years ago.

“Is there anything unusual about the pain?” Crysallis released his hand and touched his left shoulder before massaging it with a gentle but firm pressure. A numbing chill spread through him. “Your Majesty?”

The absence the aches that had been plaguing him ate away at his awareness. It took Crysallis pinching his cheek to give him enough focus to consider her question. His concentration wandered, but there was the faint sense of someone pulling on his left wrist. “Pulling,” he mumbled.

“What’s pulling?”

Kalen yawned. “On my wrist. Left one.”

Placing her hand across his brow, Crysallis made a thoughtful noise. “When was the last time you slept or ate, Your Majesty?”

“I told you to call me Kalen.”

“Well? When was the last time you slept or ate?”

“Don’t know. Don’t remember.” Sleep had been a fleeting thing in the face of his frustration. His appetite had fared no better. Kalen stifled his next yawn.

“Typical. I should have known. I didn’t have time to bring provisions, but I will see what I can do in the morning. Rest a while.” She paused, pushing his hair away from his face. “If my guess is correct, the pain in your left hand will intensify the longer you are separated from your Guardians. By morning, I doubt you will be able to rest even if you wanted to. Once you’re reunited, however, the pain will ease.” Crysallis burst into laughter. “I must admit, I never thought they’d go so far as to make a new Guardian to bring you back to them.”

“They did
what?
” Kalen tried to lurch upright, but the witch stopped him by pressing her hand to his chest and forcing him down. To his shock and dismay, she easily overpowered him. “A new Guardian, Crysallis? What? How?”

“They used Gorishitorik. Breton is with them, as is Maiten. They both know how to make new Guardians. I never thought Breton would agree to such a thing, but Maiten can be persuasive when he needs to be, I suppose. Rest for now. Soon enough, you will hurt too much to, and the limited pain blocking I can do will not be sufficient to protect you. At least you will be able to guide us to your Guardians.”

“Crysallis, I can’t tell where any of my Guardians are unless I’m close to them. You know this.”

The witch’s smile was secretive. “You’ll see.”

Kalen scowled. “I hate when you do that.”

She laughed.

~~*~~

Crysallis’s prediction proved true. By the time the sun rose, Kalen was in too much pain to do anything other than focus on figuring out how to make it stop. The worst of it, which was centered in his missing left arm didn’t help matters any. It was easier to ignore the discomfort in his right hand; it only hurt when he moved it too much or tried to hold anything.

The tug on his phantom left wrist pulled him southward, beyond the black scar cutting through the forest. The taint ate away at the trees along the banks of the empty riverbed. Wood creaked with the promise of the ancient behemoths falling. Clouds of gray smoke rose from the ground.

He stood still, quivering with his desire to pace. With the witch’s gaze on him, he restrained the urge to cross the tainted forest in order to follow the steady tug. As the sun crept higher into the sky, the sensation intensified.

“How is your hand?” Crysallis stepped forward and stood beside him, staring out over the ruined landscape.

Wincing at the witch’s pleased tone, Kalen stared down at his right hand. Flexing his fingers woke the throbbing in his bones. “Which one?”

“Your right, Your Majesty.”

Kalen sighed at the use of his title. Instead of correcting her like he wanted, he shrugged and said, “It hurts.” The throb, much like the ache in the back of his head, reminded him of his growing collection of injuries.

“You really should allow me to splint it, Your Majesty. It’s not broken yet, but that could change before we make it back to the camp. Do you really want to endure that again?” Crysallis crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him.

“Later.”

“No, Your Majesty. Now—
before
the magic fails completely and you do more damage to your hand than necessary. Need I remind you that you do not have a spare?”

“I’m well aware of that fact,” he snapped.

“Then why are you being stubborn?” Shaking her head, Crysallis sighed. “We can stand here arguing about it all morning, or you can let me splint your hand.”

“I might
need
my hand.”

“You have me, Your Majesty. You won’t need your hand. You do not have your sword, nor am I carrying one with me. You’ll be fine. I’ll see to that. I gave my word. Once we are east of Morinvale, you can guide us to your Guardians.”

Kalen clacked his teeth, focusing his attention on the smoking ground. “Are you sure we can’t cross that somehow?”

“You’d die trying.”

“That might come as a relief to some,” he muttered.

At Crysallis’s glare, the chill of the First’s presence roused. Kalen stared at the swarm’s destruction so he wouldn’t have to meet the witch’s gaze. “Well, it’s true.”

“That doesn’t mean you should say it.”

“Everyone else does. Why can’t I? Leave me alone, Crysallis. I wore a damned cast too long as it is.”

“You, Your Majesty, are one of the most obstinate and stubborn of living creatures. It is well enough that you were not born with a twin, for I don’t believe this world could survive two of you.” There was a short pause, and the witch inhaled. “You don’t have a twin, do you?”

“You know I don’t. Are you done yet?”

Huffing her frustration, Crysallis threw her hands skyward. “When the magic fails, you’ll still be trying to convince me that nothing is wrong. What must happen for you to cooperate? Perhaps the bones in your hands need to be sticking out of your skin because they’re
that
broken?”

Kalen winced at that thought. “And people tell me I’ve got a serpent’s tongue.”

“I only speak the truth. Stop being such a thrice-blasted deeps dweller about this. Yes, you wore a cast for a long time. Yes, you rely on your hand for your independence. Yes, it will force you to trust me until we find the camp. That said, I would rather not face your Guardians ire when they find out I allowed you to do exactly what you wanted, causing yourself even more harm. Are you trying to kill yourself?”

“From my perspective, not having the use of my hand equates the same exact thing,” he said, careful to keep his tone as calm and neutral as possible. “In Morinvale, it would have suited you well enough if I had died.” Kalen turned to the witch in time to see her flinch.

“They told you of what had happened.”

Kalen didn’t want to think about how the First had, according to his Guardians, taken over for a brief time. “The only reason I let you live is because you hadn’t hurt any of them. Remember that well.”

“I will.”

“Explain why, and what has changed.” Kalen leaned against one of the trees fringing the swarm’s path. The trunk creaked and chunks of bark crumbled under his weight.

Sighing, the witch drew closer, gesturing to the black-stained ground. “That is what has changed. It no longer matters in the face of a swarm. No force can stand against so many skreed.”

The First’s chill stabbed through Kalen’s head, its anger so intense that it dulled his awareness of his aches and pains. “Not even the First?”

Crysallis jerked as though he had slapped her across the face. Staggering away from him, she retreated several lengths before coming to a trembling halt. “Where did you learn that name?”

“I asked.”

~Kill?~
The desire for blood flooded through Kalen. He drew several deep breaths to contain the First’s malevolence.

“Who told you?” Crysallis’s voice wavered.

“Does it matter? You’ve said you’re old—old enough to have witnessed the first swarm. Since there is nothing like recorded about this in the Archives, it happened
before
the establishment of the Covenant. That means you’re old—over a thousand years old. You’re not even alive, are you? No one can live that long.” Kalen paused, considering the First’s behavior—and his Guardian’s reaction to the events in Morinvale. “You wanted the First, didn’t you? The Guardians wanted to stop it. That’s why you went after them, isn’t it? You were hoping the First would come.”

“I wanted to set the Rift free. You’re right. I wanted the First to show the world that the Rift can’t be contained. We have been prisoners for a thousand years. A thousand years, Your Majesty. Without the Rift King, without you, we could be
free.
Your Guardians ruined it. You stood on the brink, and curse your Guardians, they brought you back. You’re still human. If only you had ascended. Four of them had no hopes of containing what you would have become.”

“And I’m told
I’m
insane.” Kalen shook his head.

~Kill!~
the First demanded. Along with the word was the memory he had spent the past fifteen years suppressing, of Danarites dying because of him and to the First, and what they, together, had become. Maiten had been with him, watching as he had been taken over by the creature dwelling within him.

The red-haired Guardian had been the only one person the First would accept, and thus, not kill.

Kalen shuddered. Once acknowledged, the memory refused to fade. The First’s chill warmed with its pleasure.

Crysallis’s voice drew him back to the present. “Why won’t you die? Why can’t you set us free? How long must we wait? How long must we remain trapped within the Rift?”